15. “Its My Life”
Chapter 15
“It's My Life”
Taz - Age 18, 1988
W ell, this is an interesting turn of events. I look around the guest room at Sascha Bell’s house and wonder how things got so out of control that I live here now, apparently, at least for the time being.
I don’t love accepting help from Sascha and her parents, but the truth is, I’m not sure what to do, and I need some space and time to figure some things out.
As much as I hate to admit it, there’s a twisted satisfaction in watching Sascha reluctantly do nice things for me. The conflict evident in her striking green eyes is almost palpable. Her caring nature won’t allow her to turn her back on someone in need, but deep down, she just wants me to heal quickly so she can resume pretending that she hates me.
It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent, homemade meal, and after unleashing my fury on my brother, I’m famished. Mrs. Bell has outdone herself with a bomb casserole and a side of perfectly cooked vegetables. Surprisingly, my neglected taste buds seem to enjoy them.
After dinner, while Sascha and her mother clean up, Mr. Bell offers to drive me to my house to gather some things. He mentions having a friend who is the local Sheriff on call, just in case things go south with my brother. But fortunately for me, Brian isn’t home when we arrive.
The place is a wreck, but at least my room isn’t trashed. I can grab my stuff and haul it back to the Bells, along with my truck.
I didn’t feel anything when I left my house. There was no sense of sadness as I shut the door on that part of my life. The truth is, it hasn’t been my home in a very long time.
Sascha’s dad is a kind man with a clear set of principles and a few rules. He told me on the way here that as long as I’m living with them, there will be no alcohol, no drugs, no girls staying the night. The poor guy doesn’t realize the one girl I want is now a mere ten feet away. Honesty is the best policy in most situations, but I’ll skip that little pearl today.
But he’s a good man, and I will do my best to respect his rules. He’s the kind of father one can look up to. I can see where Sascha gets her ideals and strength from.
I sigh heavily and drop my meager belongings onto the guest room floor. The space is surprisingly large, with a full-sized bed dominating one corner and a small dresser against another wall. As Mrs. Bell had mentioned earlier, they have fostered many children over the years, and I can’t help but wonder how many other lost souls have spent their nights in this very room.
Falling back onto the bed, I wince in pain as my ribs protest any sudden movements. I stare at the ceiling, trying to distract myself from the discomfort. Then, I notice the scent of my armpits, a reminder that I haven’t showered since last night’s unfortunate events. There’s no way I’m getting into a clean bed like this; I might as well have slept in a ditch.
Pushing myself up, I walk into the hallway, heading toward the bathroom, straining to hear any signs of life. Downstairs, I can hear the muffled sound of a television playing and Sascha’s parents enthusiastically participating in the game show Jeopardy. Their laughter fills the house with warmth and makes it feel more like home.
Sascha’s room is next to mine, and I can hear soft music seeping through her closed door—a slow, dark melody that seems to mirror my current mood.
I close the bathroom door and take in all the girly amenities that carefully line the counter: strawberry Kissing Potion, Noxzema, St. Ives apricot face lotion, Cacharel Anais Anais eau de toilette spray, Neutrogena sesame oil, Bonne Bell Ten-O-Six deep cleanser lotion, and I am strangely comforted. The whole bathroom is peach from the wallpaper and towels all the way down to the fuzzy toilet lid cover and shaggy plush floor mat.
I start the water and carefully undress. As I step into Sascha’s shower, the scents of lavender and vanilla envelop me, and I let the hot water soothe my aching muscles. I can’t help but be embarrassed and regretful about my current situation. But for now, all I can do is rinse away the physical grime of the day and try to push away the emotional turmoil bubbling inside me.
The absence of Irish Spring body soap is no issue as there are plenty of other products to choose from—a variety of Avon products and Suave shampoo line the shelves. I smile, knowing I’ll smell like a meadow after this shower, and secretly pleased at the thought of smelling like Sascha. My body responds with a stirring in my groin as I lather myself with strawberry body wash, the sweet scent filling my senses. But I quickly banish any thoughts of self-gratification on my first day here. Instead, I focus on washing away the lingering smell of old hockey skates.
Stepping out of the shower, I reach for my towel only to realize it’s not where it should be. I don’t think I locked the bathroom door in my haste to get cleaned up and enchanted by stepping inside a girly peach sanctuary. Panic sets in momentarily before I remember that Mrs. Bell must have taken it to be washed. I debate running across the hall naked to get another one but then dismiss the idea. What if Mrs. Bell sees me?
Cool water drips from my body as I grasp the tiny washcloth and cautiously step into the hallway. There, leaning against her open door, stands Sascha, with a towel in one hand and a mischievous smile on her lips. I don't know if she's trying to take my mind off the day I've had or mess with me, but if she wants a war, she's got one.
I pause and tilt my head to the side, meeting her challenge with a confident grin of my own. Her parents’ faint voices drift up the stairs, adding an illicit thrill to our encounter. With a daring move, I drop the washcloth and let it fall to the floor, exposing my nakedness to Sascha’s hungry gaze.
Her eyes widen as they drink in every inch of my body. They roam from my hair down to my feet and slowly up again, lingering on the place where the washcloth used to be. As she takes in my form, her pale skin flushes with heat, but there’s desire burning behind her expressive eyes. Her smug smile fades away, replaced by a look of pure lust that sends shivers down my spine.
Without breaking eye contact, I offer her a flirtatious wink and walk toward my room without saying a word. If Sascha wants to play games, she’s about to learn just how skilled I am at playing them.
The moon shines brightly through my window as I lay in bed, unable to shut off my racing thoughts. It’s well past midnight and the world outside is quiet, except for the occasional hoot of an owl. Sundays are usually a day of rest for us, so I have no obligations or responsibilities to attend to. However, that doesn’t seem to ease my restless mind. I know I should try to sleep, but I find myself getting dressed in a comfortable t-shirt and sweatpants.
With nothing else to do, I go downstairs to the kitchen for a late-night snack. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that all I’ve eaten today was dinner, and that was over six hours ago. As I rummage through the fridge, hoping to find some leftover casserole, I hear someone clear their throat behind me.
I turn to find Sascha standing there with her arms crossed. She’s wearing a thin t-shirt and sleep shorts, her hair thrown up in a messy bun that somehow looks effortlessly attractive. Despite my annoyance at being caught scavenging for food, I can’t help but admire her appearance.
“Can I help you, Princess?” I say with a teasing smile, stepping aside to give her room in front of the fridge.
“You can get out of the way,” she retorts, annoyed by my presence.
“As you wish,” I reply playfully, sweeping my arm in front of me in a mock bow before moving out of her way.
She can’t help but smile at my Princess Bride reference. “I’m hungry,” she says, approaching the beige appliance.
“I gathered that,” I say with a smirk.
She lets out a frustrated huff, her breath escaping her in a rush, and then methodically pulls out the leftover casserole and a couple of plates. She scoops generous portions of the savory dish onto the plates and places the first one in the microwave to warm it up. We don’t speak through the entire process.
Once the first plate is ready, I expect her to grab it and retreat, leaving me to finish my meal alone. But to my surprise, she sets it down on the wooden kitchen table with a gentle clink and repeats the process for the second plate. With deft movements, she retrieves two forks, napkins, and two glasses of water.
“Eat,” she says once all is prepared for our intimate midnight snack.
I sit across from her at the small round table, feeling warmth and comfort from the cozy kitchen. We eat for a few minutes in silence before I finally break it with a confession.
“What you saw this morning,” I begin hesitantly. “That’s not who I am.”
Her response is flat and lacks emotion, “I’m not asking you to explain.”
“But I want to. I want you to understand,” I plead with her.
She sets down her fork and pushes away her half-eaten plate, giving me her undivided attention. “Okay,” she agrees, her eyes searching mine for the truth.
Taking a deep breath, I begin to open up about my struggles. “First of all, let me just say that I rarely drink, and I’ve never done drugs.”
She nods in understanding. “So, why last night?” she asks gently.
I push my own plate away and run a hand through my hair. “My home life is less than ideal,” I start. “My mom left when I was young, and my dad...he’s a deadbeat.”
Her expression softens with sympathy. “Is he an addict?”
“Great question,” I reply sarcastically. “Alcohol, drugs, gambling...you name it.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.” Her words are filled with genuine remorse.
“It is what it is,” I shrug. “But the worst part is how he got my older brother caught up in his bullshit too. Brian had a promising future with football, but when we moved back here, it didn’t take long before our dad disappeared again, and when he did show up, he had no problem dragging my brother along for the ride.” My voice cracks as the memories flood back.
“What about your grandmother?” she asks, her eyebrows furrowing in concern. Of course, she remembers Gram. I have a feeling Sascha never forgets anything.
“The woman is a saint,” I say, my voice filled with admiration and love for my grandmother. “She’s been the most influential and important person in my life, which is why I did what I did last night.”
“I don’t follow,” she says, her eyes searching mine for an explanation.
“Gram lives in an old age home,” I tell her, my heart aching at the thought of her living there. “She’s been there for a few years, and I hate it. It breaks my heart to see her confined to that place. So I work extra night shifts to save enough money to move her somewhere better. Maybe an apartment with me, where she can have care around the clock.”
“I had no idea,” she admits, her hand reaching out to squeeze mine in sympathy and understanding.
“No one does. Delzy knows some stuff, but I don’t exactly advertise my business,” I admit with a weary sigh. A tinge of shame creeps into my voice as I think about the things I’ve had to do to survive.
“I can imagine,” she responds sympathetically.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. “So I’ve been saving this money in an old Folgers coffee can in the back of my closet. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.” The truth sounds so pathetic and small when spoken aloud. “I forgot to lock my bedroom door yesterday.”
Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she gasps, “You have to lock your door to keep your own family from stealing from you?” Her tone is incredulous and laced with anger.
“Yeah,” I reply bitterly. “No one is winning father or brother of the year in my house.” My lips curl into a self-deprecating smile as I try to make light of the situation. Inside, I am seething with resentment toward my family.
As if sensing my emotions, she rolls her eyes, and I can see her hands beginning to shake with righteous anger.
“So I got home late last night, and my door was open,” I continue, trying to push away the hurt and frustration that threatens to consume me. “The coffee can was gone.” My heart sinks at the thought of all the hard-earned money that has now been stolen from me.
“That motherfucker!” she seethes.
“Indeed,” I agree.
“No one was home. I don’t know. I was just so angry. I grabbed a bottle of tequila and started drinking. Which is the absolute last thing I should’ve done. I know that.”
Sascha listens intently.
“Brian got home a few hours later, and I was shit-faced and angrier than before. When I confronted him, he denied it at first. Then he laughed and called me pathetic.”
“Now I wish I hadn’t stopped you from punching him in the face,” she jokes.
“He and my dad have been trying to get control of Gram’s finances for years. She barely has anything, but they will take it. Stealing money meant for her felt like stealing directly from her. It was the last straw. I snapped.”
“I understand,” Sascha says. “And I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong.” I can see the genuine concern in her eyes, and it warms my heart.
“I’m sorry you’ve endured this pain for years,” she replies softly.
“It’s all right,” I respond with a hint of a smile. “I have hockey and Gram. That’s all I need to get through tough times like these.”
Her smile grows wider, and I feel a sense of understanding between us.
“But now I’ll have to find a way to rebuild my savings.” My tone turns serious as I think about the daunting task ahead.
“You could always become a gigolo,” she teases.
“Only if you’re my first client,” I retort with a laugh. The words hang awkwardly in the air between us, causing a brief moment of silence.
“Well, I should probably go clean up and head to bed,” she announces, standing up from the table.
“You go rest,” I insist. “I’ll clean up around here. It’s the least I can do.”
She nods in appreciation and starts toward the door. Right before she reaches it, she turns back to me with a small smile. “Michael, thank you for confiding in me. I won’t tell anyone else.”
“I know,” I reply sincerely. “Are you ever going to stop calling me ‘Michael’?”
She quirks an eyebrow at me curiously. “Why would I? It’s your name.”
“My friends call me Taz,” I explain with a shrug.
She considers this for a moment before responding, “Well then, maybe one day when we become friends, I’ll use that nickname too.”